Peace and the General
by mbali
Summary: The tale of Aragorn, under the name of Thorongil, during the great battle of Ithildin while he was serving as a general under the Gondorian army
1. prolouge

Title: Peace and the General  
  
Summary: The tale of Aragorn, under the name of Thorongil, during the great battle of Ithildin while he was serving as a general under the Gondorian army.  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own LotR, or "The General", by Dispatch.  
  
Author's Note: This might be a rather lengthy note, so all of you who aren't interested, which is probably everyone, can go ahead and skip it. I just felt that I should explain the inspiration that brought about this story. After too many movies and experiences and even fanfics, as beautifully written as they are, about violence and bloodshed, I was beginning to be put off. I mean, that's pretty much what the entire American entertainment industry is based on; and to give them credit, it does entertain. Even "The Two Towers" movie, so so so good, was all about war. I mean, one of the great things about Lord of the Rings and fantasy in general is the clear distinction between good and evil. So yeah, it was killing of the evil. But, man! Where is all the peace and love?  
  
Anyway, instead of sinking into despair about the foulness of it all ; ) , and after becoming inspired by a beautiful, beautiful song about peace during war, I decided to write this. The song is 'The General' by Dispatch. But, I'm a little reluctant to make this into a song-fic. I've read maybe two really good ones of those and I usually tend to skip over the lyrics because they are corny or uninteresting or whatever. And, the lyrics to this song just don't look as good as they sound, and I want to do justice to this song! But, because of its relevance to the theme of this piece of fiction, and its inspiration, I've decided to show the chorus. Maybe I'll end up showing more..whatever. I'll just play it by ear, if yaknowhatimean.  
  
  
  
So, enjoy, and please oh please review!!!  
  
Peace, mbali.  
  
  
  
Prologue:  
  
It is the year 2979. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, has risen in the ranks of the Gondorian army, led by the young Steward Denethor. A skillful warrior and well liked among his men, he is much in the favor of the Steward, having proved himself many times in battle. Known to all as Thorongil, so as to keep his true lineage veiled, he is a sergeant, leading his troops beside the Steward in the great wars against the pirates and black Numenoreans of the north, known as the Umbar. He is a servant to the kingdom to which he will someday be King.  
  
Metal clashing. Aragorn leaned down on his steed's neck, wind blowing hair into his face which he ignored. His left hand gripped the reins, maneuvering the horse with speed and confidence, and his right held his sword, flashing in the sunlight. With power and accuracy, he slashed and stabbed, making his way through the bloody battlefield. He was desperate.  
  
Sweat, blood and mud. He blinked it all out of his eyes while he scanned the mass of bodies, alive, dead and dying. Where was he? Gràdh, his best friend, he loved him like a brother. Ever since his arrival in Gondor, they had been inseparable. But now they were separated, in the heat of battle.  
  
A hard impact to his chest nearly knocked him off the horse. He managed to recover himself, and saw an arrow sticking out of his armor. It had barely penetrating the chain mail, merely grazing his skin. He ripped it out without further though as he continued in this desperate battle.  
  
The army of the White Tree was surrounded, out numbered and out maneuvered. The Steward had made a great mistake, and Aragorn knew they were paying for it dearly. His horse stumbled as it was struck by an arrow in the flank, and then another in the shoulder. It swayed alarmingly, but Aragorn hurried it on. He needed it to go on.  
  
The enemies became denser, crowding around him. Although he was on horseback and higher above them with a great advantage, they were numerous. He fought like mad, and cried out when a blade found it mark, slashing through his shin and ankle. The horse collapsed with a sword thrust in its throat, and Aragorn fell to the ground, landing on his injured ankle. For a moment, he was crushed beneath the weight of his horse and a confused mess of bodies.  
  
Forcing his way up, he moved his sword with the grace and agility of one trained by elves. He sank the blade into the gut of one, slicing the neck of another. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he twirled on his uninjured ankle and moved his sword in an arc, striking down another pirate. It too, fell to the ground, dying; but with one last movement, one last flick of the wrist, it struck, catching Aragorn off guard. The blade sliced deep the skin on his upper lip, leaving a jagged scar. But Aragorn paid little heed, for he had spotted Gràdh.  
  
Though he was about thirty years younger than Gràdh, they looked the same age, at the waning end of their twenties, at the prime of a mortal man's life. Spitting blood from his mouth, Aragorn tried vainly to fight his way though the crowd, keeping an eye on his friend. He could see that he had taken a blow to the shoulder of his sword arm. Crimson blood seeped from the wound, overflowing on his own plated armor. With desperation, Gràdh had shifted his sword to his left hand, struggling to keep the attackers at bay. But Aragorn could see that Gràdh was losing the fight.  
  
He charged, ignoring the blades that ripped through his raiment and scarred his skin, and rushed to his friends side, aiding him. But amongst all this violence and bloodshed, he was a moment too late.  
  
Failing one last attempt to defend himself with his weaker arm, Gràdh screamed as one of the evil men drove his blade into his chest, then twisted it violently. Aragorn saw what had happened, saw his friend fell heavily to the ground. With his own shout, a shout of rage and pain and blind hatred to this pirate, this foul Numenorean, he dug his sword into the evil creature's heart, for to Aragorn he seemed less than human; then chopped off his head in one fierce movement.  
  
"Gràdh!" He shouted, dropping to his dying friend's side, ignoring the battle waging on around him. "Gràdh," he said again, softly, tears welling up in his eyes. His friend was spluttering blood from his mouth.  
  
"Thorongil," he said softly.  
  
"Gràdh, hold on. Ah, Iluvatar!" he cursed. He gripped the sword, preparing to draw it out in a hopeless attempt to save his companions life.  
  
"Thorongil," he said again, and started to say something else. "I.", but he choked, and Aragorn saw his eyes had glassed over, unseeing into the heavens.  
  
"Oh the Valar!" he cursed again, tears stinging his eyes, and he cried. His shoulders trembled. His hands, soaked in his friends blood, went to Gràdh's eyes, and he closed them, gently, with the touch of a friend.  
  
And with renewed energy and with a vengeful hate, he turned to finish this battle.  
  
~*~*~  
  
TBC 


	2. the prisoners

Author's Note:  
  
Yes! Somebody has not only heard the song but liked it a lot!  
  
A note about the names: I am probably the least creative person ever to come up with names, so I resorted to some handy online dictionaries. Ithidin, the name of the battle, is elvish for star-moon. No significance, I just liked the way it sounded. And Gràdh is Gaelic for beloved (I didn't think it would be appropriate to give him an elven name because he's not an elf!)  
  
One thing about updates: I will try and keep them as consistent and quick as possible, but I'm afraid this will have to be every week or so. It takes me a while to hammer stuff like this out. But please review!!  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
This story continues about one month later. Aragorn, known to all as Thorongil, has been raised to the rank of General for his valiant behavior in the previous battle.. Now comes the time to prove himself as a leader.  
  
The troops he has command of are stationed to the east of Gondor. They have clashed with the opposing army of the Umbar, the Black Numenoreans, in several small skirmishes, forcing them into retreat, though at great cost to the Gondorian's lives. The two small armies are now matched in numbers; but a Gondorian victory is expected due to their superior equipment and training. Based on these high odds, Denethor, the young Steward of Gondor, has opted against sending reinforcements to Thorongil, as they will be needed elsewhere.  
  
Songs of this battle will be told for ages to come; for what reasons have yet to be told:  
  
  
  
Chapter 1:  
  
  
  
here was a decorated general with  
  
a heart of gold, that likened him to  
  
all the stories he told  
  
of past battles, won and lost, and  
  
legends of old a seasoned veteran in  
  
his own time  
  
  
  
on the battlefield, he gained  
  
respectable fame with many metals  
  
of bravery and stripes to his name  
  
he grew a beard as soon as he could  
  
to cover the scars on his face  
  
and always urged his men on  
  
  
  
He was known by many names. So many, that he hardly ever went by his true name: Aragorn. As a Ranger he was known as Strider, because of his long legs and fast gait. His family, or the closest thing to it, called him Estel. Hope. Heir of Isildur, Lord of the Dunedain, and perhaps one day, Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor. But all here called him Thorongil, eagle-star, because of the pin he wore on his cloak.  
  
He rubbed the tips of his fingers over the scar above his lip, feeling its roughness, feeling how it marred his face. Not that he cared, or even knew what he was doing; it was habit. It was what he did, unconsciously, when he thought. Now he was sitting at his desk in his tent, thinking about the desk he was sitting at. It was made of wood, of which kind he did not know, but it was light and collapsible for easy haulage, with a small matching chair. Deep brown and plain, it served only its purpose. It was not for decoration. Nevertheless, it was quite a luxury to have a desk, and he did not mind its bareness. It was a necessary item to for any general, and now that he had command of his own troop, he used it regularly. Still, he regarded it as a kind of luxury. The desk, the chair, and the size of his tent, and the type of armor he wore all distinguished him from the men under his command, but that was all. Silently he smiled to himself.  
  
Ironic, wasn't it? That he, who was rightfully king, was serving for the kingdom he should rule, and glad of the extravagance of a sparse desk and chair. But aside from the subtle smirk that showed across his features, he did not want to think of such. Instead, he concentrated at the task at hand.  
  
He sat for a moment, relishing this last amusing thought, then stood. He made his way out of the tent, limping just very slightly. He was not completely healed from the last battle, in more ways than one.  
  
He made his way over to where the body of his men were resting, enjoying their lunch. Grabbing a dirty bowl, but thinking nothing of it, he poured himself some soup and sat down with them. Though he was respected by most of them, he though it was important to interact with his men, if only to keep them going.  
  
He kneeled in the middle of them, his weight balanced evenly and comfortably on the balls of his feet. This is how they all sat, even when they didn't need to. It was a habit.  
  
They were all carrying on light conversation, mostly good natured, just for the sake of it. Most of these men hadn't been home in over a year, and all their nerves were strung high with the increasing friction between the two armies. Another battle was just a few days away, inevitable. His army had seen their share of battle; more than their share if all truth be told. But still, despite their accustom-ness, if it could be called that, they were wary and nervous. It is hard to describe the feeling before a battle. How long can one hold their breath? The feeling that you are about to die, you last days, your last deeds. Most men reach a state of resigned depression. Others became reckless, and sometimes dangerous. Few, very few, were excited, masochists and sadists among them. The real veterans, the hardened ones, had a sense of hope, appreciation of life, and just general detachment. The optimistic view.  
  
But Aragorn had no choice how to feel. He could not feel, and that was the whole point, because he was the leader. He was the general. He had to plan and strategize and rationalize. He was responsible for every one of these men, for every one of their deaths. And despite the air of confidence in leading, the many years of instruction and experience, he did not feel as though he could handle this great responsibility. And it ate at his soul. He rubbed the scar above his lip.  
  
But enough of this inner conflict and self scrutiny, he though to himself. Just enjoy this meal, for after all, it might be the last.  
  
"Sir, the prisoners are here."  
  
He looked up to see a young man, hardly more than a boy, standing before him.  
  
"Lead me to them."  
  
They made their way over to the far side of camp, away form the tents and eating area. There he saw four men, in Umbarian garb, standing proudly, with their arms chained behind their backs. Their faces were streaked with dirt and dried blood, but startling clear eyes stared fiercely off into the distance.  
  
As he approached, they all turned to look at him. Three were young, about as old as the soldier leading him, and Aragorn guessed they were novice warriors. The fourth was old and hardened, with sharp features, wild hair, and only one eye. It followed him as he approached. Where the other eye had been was now an empty socket, pink and oozing. The muscles in it moved visibly as he turned his other eye to look at Aragorn. Though none of the Umbar wore their ranks visibly, a defense against assassination, he knew that this man was a leader.  
  
They were foul, these black Numenoreans.  
  
Aragorn addressed them in Westron. He was fluent in the tongue of the Numenoreans, and though he could often understand it, the dialect they spoke sounded broken and unintelligible to him at times. None of his own men knew he spoke the language, and he thought that it would be to his advantage if these prisoners of war did not know either. "Men of the Umbar," he said, "you are in the hands of the kingdom of Gondor, ruled by the Steward Denethor. As prisoners of war we hold you. You will aid us as we command or face the consequences of imprisonment." He emphasized the last word, insinuated worse then what he said.  
  
"We will never aid our enemy," said the leader, and he spat harshly at Aragorn's feet.  
  
Aragorn's heart was pounding in his chest and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. The face of his friend flashed before his eyes, and he trembled with grief, guilt and anger. The memory of Gràdh was too much to bare, and his calm coolness was quickly transformed into violent fury before the eyes of his men.  
  
Aragorn snarled with barely suppressed fury. His hand shot out and he gripped the chin of the man in front of him, the flesh turning white from the pressure. The man's one eye widened, but he did not tare his gaze from Aragorn's. "Then you and all your people will feel the wrath of Gondor," he said in scarcely controlled voice, his rage coming through. And with a sudden movement, he lifted the man and threw him backwards. His shackles clattered as he fell to the dirt, unable to support himself.  
  
Aragorn turned sharply on his heel and strode swiftly back to his tent, leaving the gaping young soldier to deal with the prisoners.  
  
His head in his hands, he sat on the edge of his rigid bed. And rubbing the scar above his lip, he thought.  
  
~*~  
  
TBC 


	3. consciousness

Author's Note:  
  
Been a while since I've updated, sorry about that. Life got in the way! But, thanks to a big ass snowstorm (lets just say, school cancellations for the past four days and counting!) I am ready to WRITE!!!  
  
I really like the concept, the idea, the mentality behind this whole fic. That said, I realize that this contains little or none of the following: violence, torture, sex, Mary-Sue-ish original characters, slash, Legolas. So I know it probably won't garner a lot of reviews. Still, it would be so nice if somebody did !! : )  
  
So, drop me a line, let me know what you're thinking.  
  
PEACE LOVE AND SMELL THE MIDNIGHT MINT  
*~*  
I have seen the others  
  
and I have discovered  
  
that this fight is not worth fighting  
  
and I've seen their mothers  
  
and I will no other  
  
to follow me where I'm going  
Chapter 2  
  
It wasn't supposed to be like this, war. Growing up, educated by elves, he had learned the history of his people, of the firstborn, of the dwarves, and of all that lived and had lived in Middle Earth and beyond. And of course, he had learned war. The causes, the effects, the strategy. Even while he understood the casualties and the immeasurable sadness that occurred in every battle, small and great, he never really knew. Even while he became skilled in the art of warfare, in archery and sword handling, he had always assumed that there was a sense of.honor in warfare. That it was noble. That brave men fought and sacrificed for good reasons. But now he knew he was wrong.  
  
There was nothing noble about war. It was blood, it was lives, it was the same sadness and casualties he had eagerly dismissed in his youth as a unavoidable consequences that lay at the heart of battle. There was nothing noble about killing his fellow men. Perhaps war could be, at best, unavoidable. When it came to killing orcs or goblins or trolls, foulness and scum, it was necessary. It was good and evil, and easy to tell them apart. But when it came to men verses men, or elves, or dwarves, it was not so clear cut or simple. And he was trying to understand.  
  
Aragorn tried fitfully to get some rest, but his thoughts would not quiet. He would have to get back to the soldier, the young one, he forgot his name, about the prisoners. He was not sure what to do with them. He rose from his bed and put on his cloak. He would go see the prisoners again, this time alone, and with a cool head.  
  
Outside, most of the camp was calm and noiseless, asleep or patrolling. Clouds hid the stars and moon from view. Appropriate, he thought, hidden from my view as is the outcome of the next few days. Slowly but directly he walked over to the corner of the encampment where the prisoners were securely bound outside.  
  
There were two guards positioned a couple of leagues away, one on either side. The prisoners appeared asleep, or at least relaxed, while the guards remained alert as good guards should. Approaching silently, Aragorn was about to hail the guards when something caught his eye.  
  
The oldest captive, the one missing an eye, was whispering intently to a figure nest to him. Keeping to the shadows, Aragorn snuck up, moving silently and stealthily so as not to be seen. He was a ranger after all.  
  
"Da-"  
  
"No, my son, you must be strong," said a rough, grating voice Aragorn recognized from their conversation earlier.  
  
"Please, father!" the young voice that was speaking broke out in a sob. "What if they kill you? Think of mother."  
  
"I love you, son, as I love your mother. But I have an obligation to my people."  
  
"I will take up your sword, when I am of age," said the voice, now determined.  
  
"Go, now, before you are seen,"  
  
"I love you-"  
  
"Go!"  
  
Aragorn watched the figure flee into the night. Once he was certain that the prisoners could not escape, he left. There was no need to talk to them again. He had seen enough.  
  
Back at his tent, Aragorn finally slipped off into a troubled sleep, his responsibilities weighing heavily on his mind.  
  
but on the eve of a great battle  
  
with the infantry in dream  
  
the old general tossed in his sleep  
  
and wrestled with its meaning  
  
he awoke from the night  
  
just to tell what he had seen  
  
and walked slowly out of his tent  
  
His mind still reeling from his dreams of the night before, Aragorn, now decided, got up and walked slowly out of his tent.  
  
~*~  
  
TBC  
  
And yeah, the dialogue between the captive and his son was corny, wasn't it?  
  
(Don't take that as a hypothetical question.answer and review!!!) 


End file.
